


Enough is Enough

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Eye Contact, Eye Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied/referenced infant death, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Mary and the Baby are Dead, Sharing a Bed, Sharing of Sexual Fantasies, Voyeurism mention, masturbation mention, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: John feels a momentary twinge of fondness, a fondness he’s been allowing himself to indulge in more and more, of late.  One more thing that’s changed.  But this change is one that does harken back to those early days, and John finds he doesn’t mind.  More than that, he finds he wants it.  The anger and bitterness had begun to be too heavy a burden, and no matter how painful the thought of his feelings never fully being returned may be, it’s still easier to bear than the rage, regret and self-loathing.  Sherlock wants him here at his side, he’s made that amply clear, on more than one occasion, since John moved back, and that’s enough.





	1. Not This Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tumblr Johnlock Ficlet Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529700) by [sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound). 



> The first chapter of this fic was meant to be a stand alone ficlet (titled Not This Time, which can be found on tumblr and in my Tumblr Johnlock Ficlet collection here on Ao3). However, so many people expressed the desire to see the conversation promised at the end of that first chapter, that I decided to make this a proper, stand alone fic.

John is utterly exhausted. 

It’s his first case back now that he and Sherlock are...Well, he’s not sure what they are, but they share a flat again, and there are nights of John picking out films he thinks will amuse Sherlock, and Sherlock deducing the plot in the first 5 minutes and then shouting at the telly for the rest of it, there are late night picnics of Thai takeaway in front of the hearth, and there is the sound of Sherlock’s violin lulling John to sleep again, and John ignoring body parts in the crisper again, and Mrs. Hudson’s tea waiting whenever they happen to get up.It’s almost like old times—almost.

Something has shifted between them, that much is clear.They aren’t the same people they were all those years ago when they first shared a flat.They’ve seen things they never wanted to see, and they’ve survived things no one should have to survive, and they’ve lost—oh how they’ve lost—so very, very much.And it sits on their shoulders, making their steps a little slower, their hair a little greyer, their vision a little blurry around the edges.They can’t eat takeaway five days in a row anymore, they can’t pull all-nighters without a headache the next day, and they can’t chase shadowy figures down damp cobblestone streets for miles without feeling it for days afterwards, apparently.

John hisses at the sharp stab of pain in his thigh, as he follows in Sherlock’s wake down the small footpath through the woods.They’re in West Sussex, and Sherlock had swore up and down that morning, that Jack Ferguson would be somewhere in these woods, and yet—here they are, and there’s nothing but birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves.

Sherlock glances back over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes.“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re getting old.”

“Oi!”John forces himself to stand a little straighter, and instantly regrets it.“At least, I’m not the one secretly dying their hair at three in the morning, and then attempting to hide the evidence.”

Sherlock spins around and stops dead, looking thoroughly scandalised. 

John just grins.“Yeah.I know about that.I know what hair dye smells like, and you did a bloody poor job of covering it up.You’re not the only one with deductive skills, you know.”

Sherlock pouts.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”But John sees the corners of his mouth twitch, and the way he self-consciously lifts a hand to his hair as he turns and sets off down the path again. 

John feels a momentary twinge of fondness, a fondness he’s been allowing himself to indulge in more and more, of late.One more thing that’s changed.But this change is one that  _does_  harken back to those early days, and John finds he doesn’t mind.More than that, he finds he wants it.The anger and bitterness had begun to be too heavy a burden, and no matter how painful the thought of his feelings never fully being returned may be, it’s still easier to bear than the rage, regret and self-loathing.Sherlock wants him here at his side, he’s made that amply clear, on more than one occasion since John moved back, and that’s enough.

It’s turning into a beautiful day.One of those late Spring days that starts off cool in the morning, but almost feels like summer by noon.Sherlock starts to shrug out of his coat and jacket as the trail ascends a small hill, and John smiles at the line of sweat soaking through the fine, white, silk-cotton blend of his shirt.He’d told him he was over dressed, but Sherlock hadn’t listened, as always, and now he’s paying the price.

“Warm?”

“Mmm?”

“You.You’re hot.I told you you would be.It’s supposed to get up in the mid twenties this afternoon, and here you are plodding around the back country in a full suit and wool coat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

Sherlock stops as they mount the top of the hill and exit the cover of the trees.“Yes, well—even I display signs of being human sometimes, it seems.”He rolls his shoulders a little betraying his own aches and pains, and then takes a deep breath and lets it out with contented sigh.“Will you look at that.”He nods toward the vista spread out below them: rolling, brilliant-green farmland threaded through with ribbons of trees and dotted here and there with small, stone villages and snowy flocks of sheep.There’s a slight breeze up in the open, and as the clouds skitter by, their shadows trail over the pastoral patchwork below.“Lovely, isn’t it.”

It is.It is lovely.But John isn’t used to Sherlock noticing or calling out such things, and it makes that seemingly bottomless font of fondness well up in his chest all over again, tight and nearly overwhelming.“Thought you hated the country.”

“Not true.”

“I seem to remember you saying something about it being more dangerous and crime-ridden than the city.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”Sherlock pulls his eyes away from the landscape, and gives John a wink.“Let’s stop for awhile.”

“What?Here?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Thought we were meant to be looking for Jack.”

“Oh,” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.“He’s probably back at the house by now.”

“Wait.Did we come all the way out here just for a morning stroll?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, only throws his coat down over the damp grass, and sits down on one side, leaving room for John, should he want to join him.After rolling up the cuffs of his shirt, he crosses his legs, and leans forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on the heel of one hand, and stares out at the scenery.

John looks out, and tries to figure out just what it is that’s captured Sherlock’s attention.There’s nothing out of the ordinary, only the rolling fields and woods.With a sigh, he lowers himself down onto the other side of Sherlock’s coat with a groan.

Sherlock’s eyes dart over at the sound, before returning to the landscape.“You need to keep moving.It’s my fault.I’ve not been running you enough.We’ll take more cases.”

“You don’t need to nurse me.I’m not an invalid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

John huffs, and lays back to stare up at the sky.“It was implied.”

“No.I only meant that you get stiff when you sit about too long, and you’re better when you get more exercise.It’s my job to keep you busy, and I’ve been neglecting it.”

“Your job?!Since when?”

Sherlock looks back at him.“It’s why you came back, isn’t it?”

John let’s his eyes slide shut, and doesn’t say anything in return.

“You were bored, restless.I provide—distraction.”

John frowns, and cracks his eyes open, squinting up at Sherlock’s serious face.“You think I wanted to come back because I was bored?”

Sherlock just shrugs.

John huffs.“No.That’s not why I came back.”

“Oh.”Sherlock tucks his knees up against his chest, crosses his arms over them, and turns away again, resting his head on his knees, staring off at nothing in particular.He looks deceptively young, folded into himself, back and the curls at his nape damp with sweat.John wants to…He wants to do something, something to make this thing between them, whatever it is, right.

“I came back because I missed it.”

Sherlock’s head pops up, but he doesn’t turn to meet John’s eye.“It?”

“You.Us.”

Sherlock does look over then, but only for a moment.He doesn’t say anything, and John knows that he only has two choices now: backtrack and try to undo it, or forge ahead.

“I missed you.I missed living with you.I missed everything we had when we lived together, before...”He takes a deep breath, and lets his eyes slide shut again.“I missed everything, and I hoped—I hoped we could pick up where we left off.And I know, I know that too much has happened, that it will never be like it was, but I guess I hoped that maybe we could find out what it is now, and that we could start from here and build something else, something new maybe.I—I don’t know.”He flings an arm over his eyes.“I’m just going to shut up now.”

There is a soft rustle of long limbs unfolding, and waft of air as Sherlock lays down beside him.John’s breath catches.He waits.“We can.”

John remembers to breathe, he turns his head, opens his eyes.“Yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes are soft, and there is the hint of a smile playing around his lips.“Yes.”

John swallows, his throat suddenly tight.“You know you’re my best friend right?You know I’m here with you because I want to be, because I just like being with you?”

Sherlock blinks, and to John’s wonder and surprise, his cheeks turn pink, and his eyes fill.He sucks in a shaking breath, blinks once, and then sits up so suddenly, John thinks he’s been bitten by something.

“Here, what’s gotten into you?”

Sherlock’s already moved a few steps away, and is pacing at the crest of the hill.“We should go back.If Jack’s returned to the house and his father hasn’t returned from town, he shouldn’t be alone with his step-mother, or the baby.”

“What?Why?”

“Jealousy.”

“Sorry, what?”John struggles to his feet with a wince.

Sherlock spins around.“Jealousy, John!Murderous jealousy!Don’t you see?!”His eyes spill over.

John frowns, totally thrown at the sudden change of topic.“What?You’re saying Jack’s the one making his brother sick?”

“Of course.It’s obvious.He’s always been a solitary boy.You know his father said he never had any friends at school, solitary pursuits, and then the trouble with the drugs after the accident.He’s injured trying to protect his mother, and she dies anyway, abandons him, and his father remarries, and then suddenly there’s a wife, and a baby, essentially taking his father away too, and Jack is left alone, wholly alone.”Sherlock frowns, and stares down at the sod beneath their feet as though it might somehow offer up answers.“For some reason he chooses to focus all that pain and resentment on the baby…”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but we need to go back, now!”

“Yeah, yeah.Okay.”

Sherlock strides back toward him, scoops up his coat and heads for the woods.

“Sherlock wait.Wait!”John finally catches up with him and reaches out to grab his arm just before he reaches the trees.“Stop!”

“John!”

“You can wait one minute.Look at me.” 

Sherlock looks everywhere but at him.Finally his eyes settle somewhere around John’s clavicle, and John decides it’s enough.“Tell me you know you’re my best friend.”

“Of course.You’ve said so before, and now is really not the time…”

“Yeah, I said it before.But that was ‘before’.Before everything, and I need you to know that you still are, that you’ll always be, and I need you know…”

“John, is this really necessary.There is an infant’s life in danger, and I would think that you of all people would…”John feels the words like a punch in the gut, and he sees the minute Sherlock registers what he’s said.His eyes to flicker up to meet John’s then, stricken, as his lips part.

“Don’t.Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.”It’s barely a whisper, but Sherlock’s eyes are full again, sincere.

“Look at me.”

“John, I…”

“Please.”

It looks almost agonising, but Sherlock does lift his eyes and hold John’s gaze.He swallows tight and dry, and tries to momentarily quell the nervous energy vibrating from every cell.

John takes a deep breath.“Tell me you know I love you.”

Sherlock’s lip trembles.

“I do, you know.I love you, and I know you don’t—do that, and I don’t have any expectations, okay, I just—I needed you to know that I’m not just back because it’s convenient, or because I need an adrenaline hit, or even just because I’m lonely.I’m back because—I’m always better when I’m with you, and I want to be given the chance to be the friend I haven’t been, and should have been, the last few years.

Sherlock shivers, and John feels his heart sink into his stomach.“Christ, you’re right, this isn’t the time, and I’m—I’m sorry.I’m a mess right now, and I can’t seem to…Listen, I just wanted you to know that I’m not going anywhere, that I care about…”

“I do.”Sherlock looks stunned at the words that have just come out of his mouth.

“Sorry?”

“I do.You said you know I don’t do that, but I do.”

John’s stomach flips, like he’s just stepped off a cliff into nothing but air and he’s hanging, suspended, for that microsecond before he starts to plummet.He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

“I know, John.I know you lo—, and I do, too—you, I mean.I mean, I feel the same towards you.And I—I know you don’t do that, not with—people like me.I know.It seeps out of you, John.Did you know that?It’s always there, it’s always been there, I’ve always seen it, but it was always easier, safer for you when it was me who didn’t do that.No choice to make.And it was fine, because for a long time I didn’t know what I wanted either, and then when I did it was too late.But I need you to know the truth now, and I need you to know that I know.I know, John, and it’s fine.It’s all fine.Whatever you want this to be—it’s fine.”

Sherlock is breathing hard, like he’s just run a marathon, and maybe he has in a way, maybe they both have. 

“What do you mean, it seeps out of me?What does?”

“Everything.Everything you feel, think—want.”Sherlock lifts a hand and subconsciously rubs his chest, just over his heart, in exactly the spot where Mary’s bullet almost took him away for good.And John feels like running, falling, just—stopping.Because nothing makes sense, and there’s nowhere to hide from it.He’s gone and done this to himself, and he’s terrified, but god help him, he doesn’t regret a thing.

He needs to say something. He needs to say something, or do something before Sherlock gets the wrong idea, and gets that look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like it’s driving something sharp and acidic through the core of John’s heart, that makes him regret ever having been born because his existing means that Sherlock is hurting, and there is nothing more unacceptable than that, nothing more…

“We need to go.The baby, John.”

And this is Sherlock doing what he always does.This is Sherlock making it easy for him.“Yeah.Right.”

“Come on.”Sherlock’s shirt is clinging to his back with sweat, as he turns away.And it’s not just the heat, John thinks.This wasn’t easy for him.This was perhaps even more difficult for him than it was for John to be the one to break the ice and finally say the things that needed saying.And now John is letting him just walk away, letting him make it easy, like he always does.

“Sherlock.”He hurries after him, reaches out, pulls their bodies together and presses his face into Sherlock’s neck when he lifts his arms to wrap around John’s back.“Let’s talk later.Promise me we’ll talk later—when we get back to the inn.”

“Yes.That would be…Yes, we should.”


	2. Enough is Enough

When John gets back to their shared room, it smells of soap and toothpaste.Sherlock is laid out on the bed, in the rattiest pair of pyjama’s John thinks he’s ever seen, his t-shirt inside out, and his hair a mass of frizz, as though he got into the shower and then got out again without remembering to wash it.His eyes are closed, but John doesn’t think he’s sleeping.

“They didn’t have the kind of dumplings you like.I had to get pork.And this fried rice might be questionable, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

Sherlock stretches out and then rolls away from him, curling into a ball.

“Here, what’s wrong with you?You getting sick?”

“Bored.”

“Bored?!”John laughs and sets the bag of food on top of the dresser, where he starts unpacking it.“You just solved a case, and saved that babies life.You can’t possibly be bored.”

“Bored.”

John pries open the box of dumplings and stabs a set of chopsticks inside, before walking over and stuffing it under Sherlock’s nose.“Eat.You’ll feel better.”

“Doubtful.”He sniffs delicately at the box John’s holding out to him, and then sits up and takes it.“These aren’t duck.”

“Yeah, I told you, they didn’t have duck.Had to get you pork instead.”

“Give me some of yours.”

“You hate the chop suey.”

“No.”

“Yeah, you do.I’ll give you some, and you’ll just pick at it.Eat your dumplings.I got you extra plum sauce.”

Sherlock starts to pick at his food, and John goes back for the rest, decides to climb up onto Sherlock’s bed and have a proper picnic.The first bite of lukewarm fried rice is heaven.He’s absolutely starving.“The telly work?”

“I don’ know,” Sherlock mutters over a mouthful of dumpling.

John leans over and reaches for the remote on the bedside table.The telly does work, but there’s nothing on but news.He turns the volume down, and leans back against the headboard.“You did good today.A bit amazed how you tied it all up like that.What was it brought it altogether?I’m still not sure I know.”

Sherlock reaches over and steals some of the rice.John lets him.“You.”

“Me?”

“Mmm…”

“Really?What did I do?”

“You were there.It’s as simple as that.I’ve told you before—conductor of light.”

John stops chewing, and looks over at Sherlock, who is staring intently into his box of dumplings.“Yeah?Well, that’s umm…That’s nice.Ta.”

Sherlock pokes at his food with his chopsticks.“John…”

“Mmm?”

“Were we going to…”

“To?”

“Talk.”

A small surge of adrenaline bursts in John’s veins.“You mean about...”

“Yes.”

“If you want to.”

“Do you?”

He nods.“Yeah.Yeah, I…It’s just hard for me.You know that.”

“Yes.”

They eat in silence for several minutes more.Someone is going to have to start, and John had started it all, earlier.Let Sherlock do the starting this time.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sherlock finally mutters.He frowns at his box of dumplings and sets it down on the nightstand.

“Yeah, neither do I,” John agrees.“Seems this happens a lot.”

Sherlock looks over and catches his eye.They both smile.It seems to break the ice a little.

“You okay?I did spring all that on you today.Still sorry about that.”

“It was fine.It was—good, John. I’m glad you said it.I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know you were my best friend?”

“I didn’t know you loved me.”

John chuckles.It’s laced through with nerves, and the sourness he can feel churning in his belly, it chases words from his throat that he wishes he could stop even before they’ve passed his lips.“Course I do, just don’t get any funny ideas, yeah.”His tone is teasing, but he sees the words hit their mark and wound none-the-less.Sherlock’s face drops.John hates himself, but there is a lump in his throat he can’t seem to speak around.

Sherlock stares down at the bed, brow knit, and nods.“Of course not.I told you, whatever you want.”

John wants to get up.He wants to get up, and leave, and never come back, because that would be best for everyone, wouldn’t it?And he hates himself so much he wishes that Sherlock Holmes had never had the great misfortune of meeting John Watson.But he’s been running all his life, and he can still remember what it felt like the one time he thought he might find his courage, enough to be getting on with anyway, and then James had been the one doing the running.Not that he blamed him.John had run first.It wasn’t James’ fault it took him so long.He’s a coward.He’s a coward, and he knows it, and enough is enough.

“It’s not just about me, though, is it.”

“It doesn’t matter, John.It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Why?”And when no answer is forthcoming.“Why, Sherlock?”

John sighs.“Listen, I—I’m sorry.I shouldn’t have said…What I said just now, that wasn’t on.I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s really not.”

Sherlock picks up his box of dinner again, and stares into it as though it might contain the answers to everything they’re fumbling through.

“I’ve thought of leaving.”

Sherlock’s head pops up, face nakedly stricken, and John sees in that moment just how much he has broken him, how his lack of courage is hurting him over, and over, and over again.And he could run.He could back away because Sherlock Holmes would be better without John Watson, or he could finally do what he’s known he should from maybe the very first day they laid eyes on one another.

“John, I…”

“It’s okay.I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drop with relief, and his eyes grow red around the rims.

“But today, at least three times today, I’ve thought of leaving, because—I know I’m hurting you.”

“John…”

“No.Let me say this.Please.Christ, if you don’t let me say this now, I’m not ever going to say it.”

Sherlock nods.

“Good.Thank you.”John’s brain is suddenly blank.Stupid, fucking useless…“What was I saying?”

Sherlock’s lips stretch into a small, fond but sad smile.“You said you’ve thought of leaving, because you know you’re hurting me.”

“Right.Yeah.Right.It’s true.And, I don’t know that I am capable of stopping.I want to, but…The truth is, Sherlock, I’m a fucking coward.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth like he’s going to contradict him, but then seems to catch himself, and shuts it again.

“I love you.”John says it again, because he needs to hear it as much as Sherlock, maybe more.He needs to remember why he’s sitting here, and trying to have this conversation that feels like it’s gutting him alive where he sits.“I love you,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “in all the ways you can love a person.I just love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes are properly full now.He nods.

John rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the headache he can feel coming on.“There have been a couple other people, over the years.Blokes.You understand?”

Sherlock nods.

“Two.Just two.A boy I grew up with.First person I ever…”Inexplicably, and to his absolute mortification, John feels himself start to cry.He wipes angrily at his eyes, and looks away to gather himself before going on.“First person I ever loved.His name was Alex.”

He manages to look up.Sherlock is looking at him intently, face open, and soft, and just a little eager, and John realises how little he’s ever really told him.This man who he’s loved since the moment they met.He’s guarded his heart, and kept everything, all his fondness, all his love, all the yearning, aching desire, locked down tight.And he’s scared of it still, scared of what might happen were he to let it all out.

“I don’t think he was—that way.He used to get us into all sorts of trouble, and still somehow manage to never get us caught.I loved him for it.”John smiles at the memory.“But, sometimes he’d get in a mood, and he’d always push me away, except for the times he didn’t, and I lived for those moments, because they were the only times I ever felt really alive.”

“Did you ever tell him?”

John shakes his head.“I crossed a line.I did something I shouldn’t have.He—he was understandably put off, so…He had a girlfriend by the next week, and he stopped talking to me altogether after awhile.”

“Is that what people do when you cross the line?”

“Some people.”

Sherlock nods, looks thoughtful, like John is slowly providing him with the answers to everything.

“What did you do?”

Sherlock’s voice is gentle, but it does’t help the wave of nausea that washes over him.In retrospect it is such a small thing, but the memories of youth seem to take on ridiculously grand proportions, seem to colour and poison everything that comes after them, and he’s never talked about this with anyone.

“I touched him.I wasn’t careful enough.”

“He didn’t want it?”

“I thought he did, but he didn’t.”

Sherlock nods, thoughtful.

“He was in one of his moods.Sometimes, if we were alone and no one else was there, he liked it if I combed my hands through his hair.Seemed to relax him.We were at his place, watching telly, no one home, or so we thought.And I was sitting on the sofa, and he was sitting on the floor, and I was combing through his hair, like I sometimes did, and I guess it felt good, because he was—I noticed he was half—hard.”

A warm hand closes over the one John has resting on the bed.he looks down and realises his hands are shaking.

“You don’t have to tell me, John.Do, if you want to, but you don’t have to.”

John balls his fist beneath the cage of Sherlock’s hand, but he doesn’t pull away.“It’s fine.It’s okay.I want to.”

Sherlock nods.Squeezes his hand, and then pulls away again.John pulls his hands together in his lap, and rubs at his knuckles.“I saw.And it—it surprised me, I guess.Not that he was having that reaction, but more that—it made me feel things too.I don’t think...I was sixteen, I don’t think I’d really thought much about what I liked.It never really occurred to me that Alex might—make me feel those things, you know.Sounds mad now, but I didn’t really know it was an option.”

Sherlock nods, and it looks like he does know, like he knows exactly what John is talking about, and it’s surprising, but somehow not, and there is a profound sort of comfort in it.It’s easier after that.

“I wanted him.I was old enough to know that, and I guess I just stopped thinking.You know what it’s like when you’re sixteen…”Sherlock gives a knowing grin and a nod, and John smiles back.“I slid off the sofa behind him, kind of pulled him back against me, and he didn’t pull away, he let me, and when I pressed my face into the back of his neck, he let me, and when I breathed against his skin, he let me.And I know he must have felt me starting to…Well, he had to have known that I was getting as effected as he was.”John takes a deep breath.“And then his brother walked in.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.It was all over school by the next day.His brother was a dick.”

Sherlock huffs.

“All over town within a few days.Got to my dad eventually.That was fun.”

“And the other person?”

“Hmm?”

“You said there were two.”

“Oh.Yeah.You know him.”

“James Sholto.”

“Yeah.We danced around each other for two years, and then…”John sighs.“He was the first person I dared to—after Alex.Nothing happened.I mean it.Nothing happened between us, but—I wanted it to.He was my commanding officer, we never could have… But I wanted to, and I think he did too—maybe.”

“He loved you.”John’s head snaps up, and Sherlock smiles softly.“Anyone with eyes could see it.”

John nods and looks away.“And I invited him to my damn wedding.What kind of person does that?”When Sherlock doesn’t say anything, John looks up.It hits him full force.“And I made you be my best man.”

Sherlock pulls in a shaking breath.“It was my honour.”

“It was me punishing you.”Sherlock’s eyes snap back to his.“I’m not saying it was planned, premeditated, but looking at it now…”

“Because I left you?”

“And because you never wanted me.Christ…”

“I did.”

“What?”

“I did want you.I just couldn’t…I didn’t know what to do with how much I wanted you.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I know.You choose men who can’t love you back.”

It’s true, but it stings.“What, so you’re saying this is all my fault?”

“No.I’m saying it’s all of our fault: Alex, James, Me, You.We’re all a bit of a mess.”

John huffs out a laugh.“I guess.”

A comfortable silence descends between them.Sherlock dips back into his box of dumplings, takes one bite, and then bins the rest.“John, not all of this is your fault.I was running away from you too.I…You weren’t the only one who was afraid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.I’ve never been in a relationship.People are—complicated, and I was always more than satisfied with my own company.”

“Oh.So, you’ve never…?”

“As I said.”

“Right.Right.But, I mean you’ve never…”John arches a brow suggestively, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“No.I’ve never.”Sherlock mirrors his facial expression back to him.“My personal fantasies always seemed much more satisfying, and much less fraught with potential hazards.”

“Oh.Right, so you…Feel those things, you just don’t want to…”

“I have never had sex with someone, if that is what you are fumblingly trying to ask.”

“But you—fantasize?”

“Good lord.”

“What, I thought we were talking.”

“Do we really need to talk about my masturbation habits?!”

John’s mouth pops shut, and he can feel his cheeks heat.Bloody ridiculous.He’s not blushed since he was a teenager.

Sherlock notices, of course he does, and his face does something John can’t quite interpret.“Yes, John.I masturbate.”

John’s blushing so furiously, now, that his head feels light.Sherlock looks infuriatingly tickled.He’s barely repressing a smile.“Oh don’t look at me like that.You started it.”

John laughs, but it comes out sounding more like a breathy giggle.Sherlock’s eyebrows do a funny sort of dance in response.“You’re ridiculous.”

John doesn’t know what to say, but fortunately, Sherlock takes a deep breath and decides to spare him.“I suppose it’s my turn to talk, isn’t it.”

“If you want.”

“I do.”

“Okay.”

“There are obviously questions you have, questions you’ve had for years.So, for the sake of brevity…No, I’m not interested in Irene Adler in any way that would matter to you.In fact, I’m not interested in women, in general.Yes, I’m interested in men.More specifically, I’m interested in you.In fact, I think you are the most interesting person I have ever had the honour of being acquainted with.No, I have never been in a relationship, or had sex, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t or wouldn’t, should the proper motivation arise.Yes, I consider you more than proper motivation.And, last, but not least: No, sex is not a requirement of anything you and I might decide to pursue, but I am not averse to it.”

John just blinks.“Okay.”

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Umm…Not sure.Still—processing.”

“Take your time.”

John huffs.“Kind of wish you’d said all that years ago.”

“So do I.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“As I’ve said—anything.”

“You’ve never had a relationship with anyone, you’ve never had sex with anyone, but you say you’re not averse to it.How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve thought about it.I’ve fantasized about it.I quite obviously and undeniably want you, and I…”Sherlock’s eyes drop, and his cheeks pink.“I love you more than is probably advisable.”

John doesn’t know why, but there is something about this confession, tagged on the end of a seemingly unending list of facts, and delivered with a sort of soft shyness he would have never previously thought Sherlock capable of, that reaches him more than any former confessions.John knows he loves Sherlock.He’s known it for years, but in this moment he feels it with every fibre of his being.“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“It’s different when it’s actually with another person, you know.Things are more complicated, more spontaneous; they don’t always go to plan.Sometimes feathers get ruffled, and feelings hurt.Sometimes you find out you’re just not compatible.”

“Do you think we’re incompatible?”

“Don’t know.I’ve got nothing to base it on.”

“Would you like to have?”

And there it is, the strange flip his stomach always does whenever he gets to this point.He’s been here before.There were a few times in college, a bloke came onto him pretty strong at a party once.He could have had him.It was clear.And he’d panicked.He’s panicking now.He’s panicking now, and Sherlock sees it, and Sherlock doesn’t do the thing he always does, he doesn’t give him that easy out.He just waits.

“Umm…I, uh…”

Sherlock crosses his legs and turns toward him on the bed, reaches out both hands, and John takes them, or rather let’s Sherlock take his, small and trembling, and wrap them up warm in the shelter of his own. 

He smiles.“It’s not a binding agreement, John.You can change your mind at any time.”His tone is light but careful.He’s worried.He’s afraid John might break, and if he’s perfectly honestly with himself, John’s not so sure himself. 

It shouldn’t be this hard.He’s 45 years old, and it shouldn’t be this hard.He loves Sherlock.He wants this.On some level he wants this desperately, with all the fervour of the boy he once was, the boy who never had the chance to love a beautiful boy, and who always felt horribly guilty for even wanting to.

“Ahh, I see…” Sherlock says, like he’s read John’s mind and suddenly understands.But, he doesn’t pull away, he just gives John’s hands a squeeze and scoots a little closer to him on the mattress, until their knees are pressing against one another.

John looks down at his hands, small and safe in Sherlock’s, and he forces the words over the lump in his throat.“I would.Yeah, I would.”


	3. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone commented on this tonight, and it reminded me that I still owed you all a chapter. Fortunately, that chapter was almost finished, and I just had to wrap it up tonight, so here you go. Enjoy.
> 
> Please heed the updated rating and new tags. This chapter is definitely NSFW.

It’s raining.

It’s raining, and they’re lying in bed with the window cracked just enough to let in a little cool, and the blankets are pulled up over them like a cocoon, and their foreheads are pressed together in the close dark.

They’re breathing one another’s breath.

“I’d like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.You can do it whenever you like.But maybe not when I’m thinking.”

John chuckles.“You’re always thinking.”

“Yes, well.Not when I’m thinking about something important.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?”

“If the case is above a seven, and I can’t solve it, then it’s important.”

“Right.”

“You could—do it right now—if you’d like.”

“Yeah?”John whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, just millimetres apart, against his skin.His fingers stir between Sherlock’s, where they’re meshed between their chests.

Sherlock nods once.“If you want.”

John slides one of his hands free and reaches up, glides his fingers through matted curls.Sherlock’s eyes slide shut, and then pop open again with a frown, when John’s fingers catch and tug. 

John grins.“Did you shower earlier, and forget to wash your hair?”

“Mm, I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“This.”

“Me getting my fingers stuck in your filthy hair?”

Sherlock smiles back.“No.What we might say to one another.What might happen.”

“And is it like you thought?”

“No.”

John tries not to feel disappointed.“Oh?”

“I’m a little in awe of you, tonight.”And he sounds it, too; voice low and hushed, like the voice John’s mother used to use in church on Christmas Eve.

John feels his cheeks grow warm.It’s getting ridiculous, really.But it’s dark, and there’s no way Sherlock can see.“Of me?”

“Yes.It was true what I said at that wedding.You are the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

John smiles tightly.“I’m really not.”

“How do you know.Maybe all the people in my life are just cowards, and on balance…”He can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice. 

John laughs.“Yeah.Okay.Maybe then.”

“Still…”Sherlock murmurs, deep and intimate.“You are remarkable.”His forehead presses against John’s, their noses brush, and John’s heart races in his chest.

He smoothes a hand over Sherlock’s hair, and feels warm all over, feels a heavy, contented sort of peace settle into his bones, as Sherlock’s eyes slide shut.And so he does it again, and again, and keeps doing it until they both drift.

* * *

 

It’s the low rumble of distant thunder that wakes him hours later.The plink, plink of residual rain dripping from the eaves onto the metal drain pipe outside their room.He’s hot, except for the back of his neck exposed to the cool breeze wafting in through the window.Sherlock is sound asleep.

His face is lax, impossibly young looking, with his hand wrapped around John’s and tucked up under his chin.And John aches.Quite suddenly, and overwhelmingly, he aches to kiss him. 

He presses his forehead against Sherlock’s, brushes their noses together, he pets his hair, and Sherlock stirs, sighs and leans in, moves his legs to tangle with John’s. 

“Sherlock…”whispered a mere breath away from his lips, from sleep-stale breath, and long, dark lashes, fanned out over pale skin smattered lightly with faint freckles now summer is almost here, from crinkles at the corners of eyes that are still the bright, unfathomable kaleidoscope they were the day they met.

“Mmm…”

“You awake?”John slides his leg up a little, from where it’s pinned between Sherlock’s legs, thrills all over at the way the muscles of Sherlock’s inner thighs tense and stir above and below.He pulls closer until their bodies are fully flush, and he can feel that Sherlock is as warm as he is, sleep soft, and pliant.“You awake?”

“Mmm…”

John tilts in, until their lips brush against each other.“Sure?”

It’s Sherlock who tilts his chin, and presses them together properly, just hovers there, between awake and asleep, holding his breath, full, dry lips pressed to John’s wet, thin ones.An arm slips around John’s waist, pulls him close.And Sherlock pulls back breathes, breathes, “John…” and kisses him again, slow, and lazy, and sweeter than anything John could have imagined.

Thunder rolls, closer now, and the heavens open again, the steady white noise of the rain muting out the rest of the world until there is only that, just the rain, and the sounds of their breathing, the rustle of sheets, and the way they whisper one another’s names like a prayer and benediction between them.

John is lost.He’s been holding his breath his whole life, and now suddenly, here he is, here they are, and Sherlock’s giving him back everything he never knew he’d lost, because he’d never even known he could have it.Like always, he’s giving him what he needs before John even knows he needs it—this aching, trembling, sweet but sure coming together, this assurance that he is real, he is whole, he is wanted.And it’s perfect, it’s beautiful, all of it.He’s utterly lost and completely found all at once.

Sherlock’s hand has found it’s way up under the hem of John’s vest, warm skin on warm skin.John sighs and pulls closer, buries his face against Sherlock’s throat, and kisses there, salty, hot; feels the vibration of Sherlock’s answering moan against the sensitive skin of his lips, kisses him again and again, until Sherlock is clinging to him and whimpering his name, and John can feel the long, hard length of him pressed up against his thigh.

The room lights up, a quick, bright flash of lightning, and John can see the sweat and his own saliva glistening along Sherlock’s throat, can count the freckles, spread out like a small constellation beneath his lips.The thunder rolls, and Sherlock’s body with it.

“John…”

“It’s okay.It’s good.”

And it is good.It’s heady and wonderful the way John’s whole body lights up, wakes up, as Sherlock’s body moves against his.It’s been so long coming, and it’s full, and pure, and right.It’s all the sweet anticipation of youth, the way he’d dreamed of this long before it had ever been a reality, all the heady hopes and fantasies of those early years, before he’d lived the reality, before love had disappointed and broken him.Here, now, every sound, every sensation is new, and exciting, and full to the brim with potential. 

He loses himself to it.Marvels in the way his body responds to Sherlock’s obvious arousal.Every pant and moan passing Sherlock’s lips, echos in John’s body like it’s his own, crackling over his skin, blooming in his blood to rush outward, downward, setting his whole body aflame.

“Christ…Christ you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock’s hands are fumbling, almost frantic, blunt nails scratching at this back, like a desperate man, losing his balance, scrambling for purchase, clinging to anything to keep him grounded.And John realises in one crystalline moment of pure joy that this is it, that Sherlock is tipping over the edge, already, only a few minutes in and already he’s so close. 

“ _John…_ ”It’s the most beautiful thing John’s ever heard, the way Sherlock says his name, like he’s a little astonished, a little overwhelmed, and desperately, desperately hungry.

“It’s okay…”He kisses Sherlock’s neck again, pushes up a little, kisses his chin, his lips, presses their foreheads together, sinks his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, knots them into a loose fist, and watches it happen.Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and his mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, like he can’t get enough air, like there aren’t words for what is about to take him, and for one brief moment he looks desperately afraid, until John tilts in, brushes their lips together, tastes Sherlock’s panting breath against his tongue and whispers, “I’ve got you.I love you.Christ, I love you.It’s okay.”

Sherlock doesn’t make a sound when he comes, only goes rigid in John’s arms, his fingers digging into the soft flesh on either side of John’s spine, head thrown back, cock pulsing against John’s thigh between two layers of clothing, and when the last wave of his release let’s him go, he curls up, and goes completely still. 

Thunder rumbles outside, retreating into the night again, the rain slows to a sprinkle.Sherlock’s breath puffs hot against John’s forehead, as his heart slows.And when a door finally slams, somewhere down the hall, he shivers, huffs, and then, suddenly, sucks in a deep breath and rolls away.

“Hey, hey, hey…What…?”John reaches out on instinct, takes his arm.“It’s okay.Come here.”

But Sherlock pulls all the way away, swings his feet over the side of the bed, and sits there for a moment, trembling, before raking his fingers through his hair and pulling hard.For a moment John thinks he’s going to leave, just like that, that’s it’s all been too much, or not enough, that he’s got this all wrong—it wasn’t wanted, he’s not wanted, and Sherlock will walk away, now—for good.But then he falls back, rolls over, and buries his face in John’s neck.

“Yeah, come here.”John wraps him up, holds him close.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

The wind picks up outside, sending the lace curtains at the window billowing into the room, and up over the bed.John pulls the blankets up over them again, and listens to a single ambitious song bird herald a dawn that is still well over an hour away.

Sherlock’s arm is slung over John’s hip, his fingers stroking the small of his back as John’s erection begins to flag.“John…”

“Mmm?”

“You were right.”

“Gonna remind you you said that.But what’s this I’ve been so clever about?”

He feels Sherlock smile against his chest.“It is different—with someone.”

“Good different?”

“More.”

“More?”

“More of everything.More than I imagined.More than—more than I was prepared for.”

John frowns and tilts his head down to stare at the top of Sherlock’s head.“You okay?”

He nods.

“Listen, if you don’t want to do this again, it’s fine.It’s…Jesus.Christ, I’m sorry Sherlock.If you didn’t want…”He’s cut short by Sherlock’s mouth against his.

And Sherlock must know somehow, because he kisses him until John can’t think straight, until any fear that might have tried to hide, tried to stay, has been chased from the furthest and darkest corners of his mind.

When he finally pulls away, John is hard all over again.He’s dizzy, and aching, and blinded to everything but the need to have more, more of Sherlock’s breath, more of his skin, more of his mouth, his warmth, his pulse thrumming against and through John’s body like it’s his own.He’s not close enough, not close enough by half.

“John…”

“Mmm?”

“I need to get out of these pyjamas.”

John blinks up at him through the velvety grey of the early dawn light, and nods.“Yeah.Okay.Close the window, too, okay.”

Sherlock scrambles up and disappears into the loo, and John dips below the waistband of his pants to stroke himself.If anyone had told him the previous morning that in less than 24 hours he would be in bed with Sherlock Holmes, he would have told them they were mad.Maybe he’s mad.Finally slipped over the edge, and hallucinating this little slice of heaven.He would be perfectly content to die here, he thinks, in this small country inn, surrounded by gaudy chintz, soft birdsong outside the window, and the sound of Sherlock hurriedly washing up in the next room.

It very much does seem like a dream…

The door to the loo, swings open, and Sherlock appears, a pale, naked streak across the room, as he shuts the window, and then hurriedly crawls back into bed.John hardly gets a chance to look, but he can still feel his cheeks flaming.And of course Sherlock notices the minute he draws close and pulls John back into his arms.

John’s face is so hot he feels like he’s got a headache coming on.He sees Sherlock take it all in, sees his brow wrinkle with curiosity.“Would you like me to put something on?”

John shakes his head, shakes everywhere.

Sherlock’s grip around his waist tightens.“Are you okay?”

John nods, but Sherlock is looking at him like he might get up out of bed, slip into his clothes, slip out of the room, and do something stupid like give John space.

“Do you want to take off _your_ clothes?”

And this is when John panics, which, he realises, is completely ridiculous give what they have just shared.He feels the headache bloom behind his eyes, and knows he’s shaking, and Sherlock sees it all too, nods like he understands.He shifts, tucks John’s head beneath his chin, pulls him close, and then stills.“You’re ridiculous.”

John frowns against the warmth of Sherlock’s bare chest.

“And when I say ridiculous, I mean stupid.”

“Hey!”

Sherlock chuckles.“I love you.”

John wants to say it back, but he’s suddenly mute.

“Stop thinking.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Usually.But right now, stop thinking.”Sherlock splays a hand over his back.it’s warm, and large, and it feels surprisingly grounding.“And perhaps remember to breathe.”

John lets out the breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding with a huff.“Sorry.I don’t know what…”

“You’re fine.I shouldn’t have left you.”

“What?”

“Just now, to go to the loo—and all the other times, for what it’s worth.”Sherlock’s hand rubs a soothing line up and down his back.

John shivers, breathes, and lets the tension fade.“I am ridiculous.”

“Mmm, true.You’re always trying to force things.”

John sighs and rolls his eyes.“Would like to get back to what we were doing before, if that’s alright.”

“See.”

“What?You don’t think I want to?It’s fine.It’s alright.I want to.”

“Is it alright?”

John nods.

“John…”

“I want you.I want this.”

“Yes, you do.But there’s no need to rush.Let’s take our time.”He presses his lips to the top of John’s head and breathes into his hair.“Tell me what you’ve always wanted.”

“What?”

“When you’re like this, when you’re in bed with a man in your dreams, what do you ask for, what do you take?”

John’s head throbs.“I don’t—I don’t really fantasise about that.”

Sherlock nuzzles his hair with his nose.“Never?”

“Well—sometimes.”

He feels Sherlock smile.It’s probably smug.It’s probably knowing, damn him! 

“And what do you think about those times?”

“Thought there was a rule—no requiring the sharing of wank fantasies.”

“Did we make that rule?”

“You made that rule, but I suppose it only applies when we’re talking about you.”

“It was more of a request than a rule, and I will tell you, if you want to know.”

“What?Really?”

“Mmm.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Tell me one of your fantasies.”

“If I tell you one of mine, will you tell me one of yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.Alright.”Sherlock’s hand slides up the whole length of John’s spine, and comes to rest tangled in his hair.“One of my earliest fantasies involved the thought of being in a large room with other men, usually an army barracks…”

John grins.“Have a thing for soldiers, do you.”

“Possibly.”He can hear the tease in Sherlock’s voice, something he never could have imagined even a few hours before.“I’m in the barracks, and I’m masturbating while everyone else sleeps around me.Or perhaps they aren’t all sleeping.Perhaps one or two of them hears, and they get themselves off to the sound of me.Sometimes I’m the one not sleeping.Sometimes I’m the one hearing someone else.Sometimes I join in, lay in my own bed, and come listening to them.”

John’s half hard again.“Yeah?”His voice is hoarse with desire.He shivers, and Sherlock rubs the pads of his fingers over his scalp, in slow, infuriatingly pleasurable circles.

“Mmm…”

“That happens sometimes, you know.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you…?”He can hear the shy, anxious hope in Sherlock’s voice, and he smiles.

“Sometimes.”

“How many of you?”

“Usually who ever wakes up and hears.You get pent up.It’s months in training, or in the desert.It’s stress relief.”

“Of course.”Sherlock is grinning.

“What?It is!”

“Obviously.”

John huffs out a laugh.It’s working, this thing Sherlock’s plotted.John can feel himself relaxing, forgetting whatever it was that had him tied up in knots a minute earlier.

“Guess it’s my turn.”

“Yes.”Sherlock’s lips ghost against John’s scalp, his hand returns to his back, pulls him a little closer.He knows Sherlock can feel how hard he is.He wants him to know.

“Earliest fantasy?”

“If you like.”

“Earliest fantasy’s a bit bland.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Earliest fantasy was this.”Sherlock’s fingers still at this nape.“Lying in bed with a boy, naked, hard together, touching, talking, kissing.”

“You would masturbate to this?”

“No.Well, sometimes.But usually it just…”John swallows tight around the lump in this throat.“It made me feel safe.”

Sherlock’s hand slides down to splay over his upper back again.

“Things weren’t great at home, then.The thing with Alex happened, Harry got kicked out a year later.Dad would come home drunk a lot.He and mum were always fighting.I spent a lot of time in my room, and—it made me feel better.”

“I see.”

“Probably sounds stupid.”

“No.”

“You were probably hoping I’d share something more…”

“I was hoping you would share what you wanted to share, and you have.”

“It’s never been easy for me.I—it was always this secret, does that make sense?It was this precious, secret thing, and I always felt like—if I acted on it, it would—it would sully it somehow, take some of the beauty out of it.It wouldn’t be safe anymore.I wanted it, desperately, but I didn’t too. I… Jesus.”

“And has tonight sullied it, do you think?You can be honest, John.”

“No.”John’s crying and he doesn’t know why.“No, I um…”He swallows tightly.“No.”

“Good.”Sherlock tickles the hair at his nape until he looks up at him.He kisses his forehead, and John lets his eyes slide shut.“I’d very much like it to _stay_ safe.If that is what this is to you, then we can take our time.”

“I want you!”

“I know you do.”

“ _I want you…_ ”

“John.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to take off your clothes now?”

And he would, he realises.It suddenly seems of the utmost importance that there is absolutely nothing between them.“Yeah.”

Sherlock lets him go, and he squirms out of his vest and pants under the covers, tossing both on the floor before rolling back on his side and letting Sherlock pull him back into his arms.Sherlock’s warm, the hair at his groin slightly damp from having just washed, and his nipples are peaked and hard against John’s chest.

“Alright?”

John swallows and nods.

Sherlock’s mouth quirks slyly.“I’m starting to see the appeal of this fantasy.”

John smiles.“That so?”

“Mmm.The naked part especially.Should I tell you another?”

“Another?”

“Another fantasy.”

“Oh.Yeah, if you want.”

“Do _you_ want?”

“God, yeah…”

“Hmmm…”

“Lot to pick from, are there?”

“You might be surprised.”Sherlock’s hand slides down John’s spine and stops just short of his arse.“Do you want mildly, moderately, or extremely erotic?”

“How would you classify the last one?”

“Mild.”

“Then give me moderate.”

“Alright.This one involves you.”

John pulls back a little and tilts his chin up.“You fantasize about me?”

“Sometimes.Do you mind?”

John thinks about it, shakes his head.“I just—I guess I never really thought about you wanting any of this at all, so I…”

“Mmm.Shall I tell you, then?”

“Yeah.”John draws closer, slipping a leg between Sherlock’s, and tucking his head back beneath his chin, like he’s getting ready to hear a bedtime story, something he rarely if ever had the pleasure of doing even as a boy.

Sherlock buries his nose in his hair.“Sometimes, when we used to live together, I would hear you.”

“Hear me?”

“When you masturbated.”

John feels his cheeks flare.“What?Really?”

“You weren’t exactly quiet.”

“I tried to be.You were always sneaking in and out of the flat.I probably thought you weren’t in.”

“Mm, maybe.But I heard you.And so I started to be curious about it—what you do, what you like.”

“When was this?’

“After the pool.Before the Adler case, but after you’d broke up with…”Sherlock looks down.“What was her name?The doctor?”

John sighs.“Sarah.”

“Yes.After her.”

“Okay.”

“So, I started thinking about it.What if I snuck upstairs while you were in the throes of it.What if I watched you through a crack in the door.”

“Did you?”

Sherlock smiles into his hair.“No.Thinking about something and doing it are rather two different things, don’t you find?”

“Mm.”

Sherlock’s lips press against his scalp.“But I thought about it, and then I started to fantasize about it.I imagined watching you.I imagined waiting until you’d teased yourself almost to the brink, and then walking in.I wasn’t clear what you’d do…”

“Back then?Back then I probably would have tossed a tube of lotion at you and told you to get the fuck out.”

Sherlock laughs.“Mmm.Well my fantasy was a little more forgiving than that.It was a fantasy after all.”

“Yeah?So what did I do in this fantasy?”

“In my favourite one, you would stop for a minute, surprised to see me, but then you would hold my gaze, and go back to what you were doing, and you would…”Sherlock swallows, and sucks in a shallow breath.“You would let me crawl into bed with you, and…”

“Yeah…?”

“Mmm, you’d let me…”He swallows again.“Take you in my mouth.”

The strength of the surge of desire that races through John’s veins surprises him.He sucks in a breath, and lets it out with a quiver that Sherlock instantly registers.John can tell by the way he shifts a little, slides his fingers down John’s spine, until they stop, hovering in the dip of John’s spine, waiting, waiting for John to tell him, show him what he wants.

John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s chest, and speaks against his skin.“And then what?”

Sherlock’s hand rests in the small of his back, slides down over the rise of his arse, and settles again.“And then you would moan”His thumb strokes along his crack.“You would moan, and say ‘Oh God, yes!’Just the way you did the night of our first case.Do you remember?”

“What?”

“I asked you if you wanted to come along.I asked you if even though you had already seen so much danger, and horror, and violence, if you wanted to see some more, and you said…”

“God, yes.”

“Mmm.”

“And that’s what I say when you…?”

“It is.And then you reach down and take my hair in your fist, and guide my head back down where you want it, and you”He swallows dryly.“You move.You…”

John moans, and pushes up to messily swipe his mouth over Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s grip on his arse tightens, a single firm squeeze, before he pulls him close, rolls them over until John is lying atop him, staring down at him, eyes heavy and mouth dry with lust.“I would say please.”

“What?” Sherlock pants.

“I wouldn’t say, ‘God yes!’I would say ‘Please.’”

“Wo—would you?”

“Please.God, please Sherlock.Please…”

And then Sherlock is kissing him again, deep, messy, a gorgeous glide of lips and tongue.“Now?”

And John almost misses it, because he’s dizzy with want, and rather distracted by the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the round, wet, hollow emptiness of it begging to be filled.So, he registers the question rather late, and when it hits him he knows—without a doubt.

“Yes.  God Sherlock, please.”

John is on his back, Sherlock’s hands trailing down over his ribs, before he knows what’s happened, and when Sherlock presses a kiss to his abdomen, he throws his head back and makes a noise that would be embarrassing if he was with anyone else but Sherlock.He feels Sherlock grin against the skin of his belly, before sliding lower, letting John’s cock brush against his cheek, and burying his nose in the thatch of dark blonde hair at John’s groin.

He breathes deep, and John shivers.

“Perfect.”Sherlock’s voice is a good octave deeper than usual, and John is certain he must know what it does to him, because he sighs and moans just as deep, and John feels himself somehow grow even harder.

“Please…”It’s small, and desperate, barely more than a whimper, and he feels something shift between them.

Sherlock’s hands come to rest on John’s hips, and he rests his cheek against John’s hipbone for a moment like he’s taking in all the details, planning his approach, and John can feel tears in his eyes, biting at the corners, hot, overflowing to run down over his temples and soak into the pillow beneath.

Sherlock breathes against him, lifts his head, glides his tongue over the full length of John’s cock, root-to-tip, deliciously slow, and John groans like he’s been punched in the gut.It’s so much, and so good, and he’s wanted it for so long…It almost doesn’t feel real.

He cranes his neck to look down, and nearly comes undone as Sherlock looks up at him through dark lashes, takes John’s cock in hand, and swallows him down.

John slams his head back against the pillow, and balls up the sheet beneath him in two white-knuckled fists.

Sherlock takes him easily, and with a skill that suggests he’s done this before, and yet he’s just said he’s never…

John doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Sherlock’s hand starts to move, and his head starts to bob, and his mouth is hot, and wet, and the suction he’s providing is just abso-fucking-lutely right, and John realises with a jolt, that he is much closer than he’d realised, and that it’s not going to take much, much of anything at all before he…

He lifts a hand to Sherlock’s head and knots his fingers in his hair.“Christ.Jesus, Sherlock, you have to stahh…”John’s voice strings out into a gasp as Sherlock moans around him.“I—I’m gonna…”

“Mmm…”Sherlock just takes him deeper.John’s feels the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat, feels Sherlock pause for a moment, breathe hard out of his nose, and then take him deeper still. 

Fresh tears leak from the corners of John’s eyes, and when he looks down at Sherlock again, his eyes are full too, his lips wet and stretched around the girth of John’s erection, his cheeks scarlet, and suddenly John wants him closer, knows without a shadow of a doubt that he wants to be in his arms, looking at him--honest, and open, and real when he comes.

“Come here.Come up here.”

Sherlock’s brows knit, as his lips pop off, and a bit of saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth.He wipes it away.“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.Yeah, just—come up here.I want to see you, and I…”

Sherlock glances down at John’s cock as it throbs beneath his chin, and then reaches up to grind his palm against it.

John chokes out a whimper.“Soon.Quick, okay.”

Sherlock grins, slides up his body, the whole length of him providing the most delightful friction, and when he lets his weight settle down on top of him, John knows it’s right, because it’s there, that feeling of calm, of safety, of everything aligning and clicking into place.  When Sherlock cups his face in one of his large hands, and dips down to kiss him, slow and sweet, he wants to let go, he wants to come undone, and he does.

It doesn’t take long.He wraps his legs around Sherlock’s hips and grinds up against his abdomen, letting the pleasure build, and build, until he’s teetering right at the brink.And then he reaches up, gentles Sherlock’s lips away from his, pulls back a little, stares up into his pale eyes, bright and filled with wonder in the silvery dawn-light, and lets go with an arched back and a moan as he spills between their joined bodies.

Sherlock’s eyes never leave his, and even when the last wave of pleasure has wrung itself from his body, he doesn’t look away.He just stares up at Sherlock, and hopes that the language they are speaking in that moment, the language they have always shared, is enough for Sherlock to know everything this has meant to him, everything Sherlock means to him.

Of course it is.


End file.
